


Starving

by Pigzxo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, i'm aware the timeline is off but who has time to research the supernatural timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 13:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13927968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pigzxo/pseuds/Pigzxo
Summary: Over time, Dean comes to terms with his feelings for Cas. (A character study in how Dean reacts to Cas in various states of undress.)





	Starving

**Fully dressed**

The first time Dean sees Castiel is a religious experience – both literally and figuratively. Even as his heart rate speeds and adrenaline courses through him, he knows it’s not completely a reaction to the threat at hand.

            Sure, an all-powerful angel has just walked into the barn with a look somewhere between murder and rapture on his face, and Dean is scared. Scared in that hunter way of his, the scared that’s mostly courage. And as Dean grips the dagger tighter, he knows that he has to take the shot, has to try to kill this creature, because what if he doesn’t? What will happen to him then?

            His palms are sweating. His heart feels like it’s in his throat. And this man – angel, whatever – is looking right into his eyes. Dean feels a little like he’s drowning, a little like he hasn’t eaten all day. A beige trench coat hangs off Castiel’s frame, blowing out in the wind he creates around him to reveal the carefully tailored suit underneath. Dean’s eyes dip down to follow the line of his blue tie.

            Then he stabs him.

            And nothing happens.

            Dean feels his heart fall out his feet. But it’s not quite that simple because now this man/angel/creature is staring at him, holding his gaze, and then, slowly, he smiles. It’s a smile like that that Dean thinks he could get used to even as a chill runs up his arms. It’s a smile like that that Dean thinks he wants to see a lot more of. His eyes follow the curve of Castiel’s lips before meeting his eyes again. His electric, wildly blue eyes. The kind of eyes Dean wants to look into while he’s naked and sweating and _shit_.

            His heart is still pounding and he’s still scared but it has nothing to do with the fact that the angel is picking his dagger out of his chest. No. It’s the immediate, overwhelming sense of fear that comes with knowing that he’s powerless when it comes to Castiel. This angel, in ten seconds flat, has managed to take over his brain and his heart and every single nerve in his body. Even fully dressed, Dean is so turned on by the sight of him that he struggles to form coherent words until Bobby’s harsh voice snaps him out of it.

            “What are you?”

**Without his trench coat**

Dean knows Cas well. Too well, maybe. He knows their relationship, friendship, whatever is causing troubles for Cas is heaven. He knows that every other angel thinks that they’re too close to each other, that they care about each other too much, that they mean too much to each other. Dean shies away from every comment on the matter. Maybe he agrees with them. Maybe not being close to Cas is too hard for him to even care.

            It’s been months with Cas by his side. He spends more time with Cas now than he does with Sam and somehow he doesn’t feel like he’s missing his family, doesn’t feel like he’s neglecting them. Cas is family in that weird way that when you grow up you get to choose your family. Dean chooses Cas, all the time. He chooses Cas when he prays to him at night and when he sits in the long, awkward silences, somehow expecting Cas to make sense. He chooses Cas even when his friends and other angels and Cas himself explain to him that Cas isn’t human. Not quite.

            Dean brings food back to the motel room even though he knows Cas doesn’t eat. Maybe it’s habit. Maybe it just seems like the right thing to do. He doesn’t knock, just opens the door. That is a mistake. No maybe necessary.

            Cas is in the process of shrugging out of the trench coat. His broad shoulders move slowly, his arms pulling out of the heavy fabric. Under it, he’s still fully dressed. The suit is dark and well-made, neat almost to a fault. Dean doesn’t know how Cas got through the scuffle with that werewolf unscathed but he almost doesn’t care. Without the trench coat, Cas’ body is more defined, the shape of it less hidden.

            Dean forgets how long he’s been standing in the doorway, staring. He forgets the heat in his hand is the takeout bag and not just his sweat. He forgets his mouth is hanging open.

            Then Cas looks up at him. His blue eyes are soft, curious. Sometimes, still, Dean gets a glimpse of that all-powerful, terrifying being he saw the first night they met. But most of the time, Cas is just Cas. His friend. His companion. The guy with the soft blue eyes who would do anything for him, who thinks it’s his duty to protect him no matter how many times Dean insists he can take care of himself.

            “Are you all right?” Cas asks, his speech a little stilted. He pulls on the knot of his tie, slightly exposing the curve of his collarbone.

            Dean swallows hard. He puts the food down on the dresser and closes the door, all while looking at his feet. Closing the door was another mistake. Now they’re trapped in the motel room, alone, with the whole night ahead of them. And Dean, well, Dean’s thoughts are getting away from him, swirling through scenarios that involve Cas taking off more layers of clothing, and Dean’s panicking a little that he can’t stop himself. He’s not a hundred percent sure how this prayer thing works yet, how Cas can hear him when he calls, and he wonders if this counts as praying.

            Cas takes a step closer, tilting his head to one side. “You look warm. Do you have a fever?”

            He reaches out and Dean jerks back, clearing his throat. He shakes his head and steps around Cas, steps away from him, making his way to the other end of the motel room. “Fine. Look. It’s been a long night. I need to get some sleep.”

            Dean hears Cas’ silence the way he hears other people’s voices. He can’t explain it. Cas, even with no words, sounds like a conversation to him. His breathing tells Dean things. His footsteps speak paragraphs. The flick of his eyes is like a romantic speech is some stupid movie Dean would only ever watch a couple of minutes of while flipping through channels. He hears Cas’ silence now, hears the questions in it, hears him ask if he did something wrong.

            Dean doesn’t have the patience to explain it. He’s not sure he could explain it without just ripping off Cas’ clothes. And what then? Would Cas even understand? What does he know of the human urge to kiss and touch and fuck?

            Dean clears his throat. “You wanna get out of here?”

            Cas’ silence speaks epics in seconds. Then, “That doesn’t seem safe just now.”

            Dean nods. He forces himself to turn around. Somehow, without crossing back, without touching anything, Cas is back in his trench coat. His eyes are sad and curious and a hundred other emotions Dean would never associate with any other angel. He swallows hard and hopes that Cas can hear the _thank you_ in his own silence.

**Without his trench coat and suit jacket**

Cas is human. Cas is human and there is simply too much between them for Dean to feel the things he used to feel for Cas. Cas is human and he betrayed them and he put Sam in danger, he put Dean in danger, he chose Crowley over them and Dean can’t even comprehend the way he used to feel about Cas. Sometimes he wonders if they were ever really friends at all.

            But Cas is human and there’s something softer about him, something new about him, something that makes Dean remember all the affection he used to feel for his angel. Because that’s how he thinks of Cas now that he’s not an angel to the world. He’s Dean’s angel.

            And Dean has learned from previous experience, from _a lot_ of previous experience, to knock before he enters Cas’ room. So he knocks on the door to the space they’ve given him in the bunker, the space that seems so far away from Dean’s own room, and he waits. He waits leaning up against the door, trying to hear Cas’ breathing, wondering if Cas is all right.

            Sometimes, still, Dean prays to Cas at night. He knows Cas can’t hear him, can’t help him, can’t pop up beside him and save him, but it’s a habit that’s so, so hard to get rid of. Even when Dean hated Cas, he couldn’t stop talking to him in his sleep, couldn’t stop reaching for him. Hell, even when Dean lived with Lisa – Lisa, who he loved more than anyone else – he would find himself closing his eyes and asking for Cas.

            “Come in,” Cas says. Somehow his voice is weaker now or maybe just deeper. Those gravelly undertones roll under the door and chill Dean’s bones.

            Dean tries to get a hold of himself. It’s been years since he looked at Cas like that, since he thought about him with any kind of untainted affection. Cas may be family but now he’s the kind of family you don’t talk to every day, that person you used to be close with that you now can’t say two words to, the kind of family you don’t mention in your Christmas letters. And Dean chose him. Dean chose wrong.

            Dean opens the door. He’s rehearsing what he needs to say even though it’s very simple – he and Sam are going on a hunting trip. It’s best if Cas stays here. It’s for his own safety – but he stops when he sees Cas.

            Cas sits on the end of the bed. His hair is wet and droplets fall down the side of his face. Most of the buttons are done up on his shirt but a few hang open at the top, revealing his still wet collarbone and the hard line of his sternum. He’s not wearing shoes or socks and suddenly even looking at his feet doesn’t feel safe. Dean feels a small, irrational spike of panic wondering where Cas’ tie is, what happened to it, when he’ll put it back on. He remembers the last time he froze at the sight of Cas and how Cas managed to redress without even moving. He can’t do that now. He’s not an angel anymore.

            “Dean,” Cas says. It sounds almost cold. Or maybe it just seems cold because it’s not warm. He flicks his eyes up to meet Dean’s and Dean can’t hear his silence anymore. If he’s honest, he hasn’t been able to hear it in a while.

            “You know you’re supposed to dry off after a shower, right?” Dean manages, trying to sound cool and collected, not like he’s five seconds from swallowing his tongue. He’s having trouble keeping his focus on Cas’ face. He wants to lick the water off his chest, feel his wet hair in his fingers. Dean shifts in the doorway, clears his throat. “Just wanted to tell you we’re going.”

            “Going where?” Cas half rises off the bed.

            Dean holds out a hand. “We as in me and Sam. Not you.”

            “Oh.” Cas sinks back onto the bed, his shoulders slumping. He reaches for the towel lying across the bed and wipes it across the back of his neck. “Why?”

            “You’re human.”

            “So are you.”

            Dean swallows hard. The fire in Cas’ voice is not making it any easier not to make this inappropriate. He pulls the door a little further closed, hoping to hide most of himself. His eyes focus on anything that isn’t Cas – the bed, the side table, the armchair at the side of the room – but it’s no use. Every time, he gets a little lost wondering what it would be like to be fucked on any of those surfaces.

            “Do you think I can’t take care of myself? I’m an angel of the Lord.”

            “Not anymore.” Dean forces himself to meet Cas’ eyes again. And fuck. Somehow human Cas has regained that lightning quality that he had the first time they met. Somehow human Cas also has the soft edges of affection Dean grew used to. He wonders if the space separating them is all in his head. He wonders if he’s the only one holding a grudge. He wonders if he just let go, if he just forgot, if he could look back at Cas the same way.

            He can’t forget.

            Cas sighs. “Fine. I’ll stay behind.”

            “Thank you,” Dean bites out. He spares one last look down at Cas’ dripping collarbone, at the half-opened shirt. The fabric is thinner than he remembers. White and wet. He can see the faint outline of Cas’ abs, the dark trail of hair leading down from his bellybutton. He hesitates.

            “Anything else, Dean?”

            Cas’ voice is anything but friendly. Somehow, that just makes Dean want him more. He stands in the doorway and meets Cas’ eyes. He genuinely wonders what would happen if he kissed him now. Cas hasn’t been human long but he must know. He must know what humans want, what they need, what they crave. He must be able to read the look in Dean’s eyes, hear his heart pounding in the quiet space.

            Dean knows it wouldn’t be what it should be. It wouldn’t be the soft, safe thing it started as, the initial burst of unconditional love and desire. It wouldn’t be something that lasts forever and ends in wedding rings and that white-picket-fence house he’s always teasing Sam about. It wouldn’t be what it would have been if Dean had swallowed his pride and his fear and kissed Cas when he was still an angel. When they were still strangers. When nothing bad had happened yet. It would be a hate fuck. Plain and simple.

            “Dean?”

            Dean blinks and backs out the door without a word. As he shuts it, he wills the tears to disappear. He wills the sick, psychotic instinct to close his eyes and pray to Cas to go away. Cas can’t fix him. He can’t even fix himself.

**Without his shirt**

Things are better now. Cas is away a lot, sure, and Dean worries, but he no longer worries that he worries. Cas is family. Cas means something to them. Cas has been with them for years. And Dean is allowed to worry about him, to care about him, without thinking that there’s anything more to it. After all, if anyone in his family disappeared for weeks on end without calling, Dean likes to think he would panic just as much as he does every time Cas disappears.

            Dean is sitting at the map table in the bunker, beer in hand, trying to get through a book of spells Sam asked him to translate. Sam’s sick – a cold or the flu – and says he can’t focus on it, but it’s important. So Dean’s trying. Or at least, he’s pretending he’s trying while really playing Candy Crush on his phone.

            The door above bangs open, too harsh and violent for Dean to believe it’s a friendly visitor. He jumps to his feet and pulls the glock out of his waistband. He points it at the foot of the stairs, readies his stance, and flicks the safety off. He waits. He feels steady and calm in a way he never feels outside of a battle.

            That calm is ruined by the sight of Cas stumbling down the stairs. He’s bloody and unstable. His coats are gone and his shirt is torn to pieces. Most of his weight is on the railing instead of his feet.

            Dean drops the gun. He rushes forward, takes Cas by the arm, and leads him forward. “What the hell happened? Why didn’t you heal yourself? Are you alright?” he rambles as he sets Cas down in the chair he just vacated. He kneels down and faces Cas, taking in the damage, the blood, the open wound under his breast. Dean swallows hard and meets Cas’ eyes. “Does it hurt?”

            “It’s healed,” Cas breathes out.

            Dean gives him an incredulous look.

            “It is,” Cas hisses. He grips the arms of the chair and tries to hoist himself into an upright position but falters, fails. He slumps back down. “It was just... a lot of energy... couldn’t clean up the blood.”

            “Okay,” Dean says. He staggers to his feet and goes into the library to find the First Aid kit. When he comes back, Cas has stripped off his shirt and is pressing his fingers into the bloody wounds.

            Dean rushes forward and grasps Cas’ hand. “Hey, don’t do that. Antiseptic wipes work just as well at this point.” He carefully sets Cas’ hand aside as he once again drops to his knees. He can feel his adrenaline humming and he wishes he could blame it on leftover panic that Cas may be hurt. That Cas may not be able to heal himself. That something is seriously wrong.

            But even though Dean does everything to stop himself from thinking what he’s thinking, he still knows himself better. He still knows that kneeling in front of a sitting Cas is a particularly tame fantasy of his. He still knows that touching Cas’ thigh to steady himself is more about feeling the muscle underneath his pants than it is about steadiness. He still knows that as he brushes the wipes across the blood, his eyes are searching the gleaming expanse of Cas’ skin, his chest, his abs.

            Dean does his best to steady his breathing but he doesn’t dare look up. He knows his feelings are dead clear on his face. And he really thought he’d quashed this. He really thought he got over the stupid crush, the knee-jerk attraction, and moved on to a place where he could just be Cas’ friend. But faced with the bare expanse of Cas’ chest, Dean is overwhelmed by the urge to touch him. He lets his fingers skid along with the wipe. He spends too long rubbing blood out of the crook of his abs. He grips Cas’ thigh a little too tight, shifts a little too far forward. When he wipes the blood from Cas’ collarbone, he forgets to breathe. He keeps thinking about kissing his wounds better, about biting new ones into his skin.

            “Dean.” Cas’ voice is soft, curious. Dean’s heart is pounding in his throat. He’s faced demons, angels, gods and yet he’s never been more afraid in his life. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t respond, just continues to let his thumb graze across Cas’ bloodless collarbone. “Dean, are you all right?”

            Dean hates that Cas only asks that when he’s thinking these thoughts. He hates that he looks sick to Cas right now. Not that he feels much better.

            “It’s a lot of blood, Cas,” Dean manages. He removes his hand. The blood is gone but he can’t stop staring at the muscles on Cas’ chest. They’re not vanity muscles. He doesn’t look anything like an actor or a model or a porn star. No. His muscles are for strength; they come from hard-won fights and days on the run. The hair that covers his chest is thin but dark and the trail that leads to his belly button begs Dean to touch it. “What happened?”

            “Wendigos,” Cas says. “A lot of them.”

            Dean nods but doesn’t move. He’s not sure he can yet.

            Then, Cas’ hand is on the back of his neck. Dean jerks, suddenly afraid. His mind jumps the panic response and then goes straight to the porno fantasy playing in the back of his mind. Cas will pull him forward and Dean will go willingly. He will go oh, so willingly into the heat of Cas’ body, between the strength of his thighs, down into the heat of his crotch.

            Dean feels a tingle of heat on the back of his neck. He feels himself calm.

            “You’re always so anxious.” Cas slides his hand away and Dean finally looks up at him. He can’t read the expression on Cas’ face. He knows there’s affection there, curiosity, but he can’t tell if Cas has the same reaction when it comes to Dean being down on his knees. “I wish I knew how to help that.”

            The spontaneous, asshole side of Dean wants to say _you could fuck me_ but most of Dean, the logical side, the side that raised his baby brother, the side that only goes into battle with a plan, simply shakes his head. Cas doesn’t know, couldn’t know, what’s running through Dean’s head. And if he did, he would be confused, ashamed, maybe angry. And Dean, well, Dean knows from experience now that he can’t survive without Cas. He knows he can’t handle himself without Cas. He can’t handle life. And maybe even more than the attraction, even more than the thoughts running through his head, that’s what scares Dean most. Cas is it for him. He’s sure.

**In only his boxers**

It isn’t a crush anymore. It isn’t some pure, untainted thing, some idealistic fantasy. It’s real. It’s love. Dean Winchester is in love with Castiel.

            Some days he admits it to himself. Some days he tries to ignore it. Some days they’re so in sync, so happy, that Dean forgets. He forgets they’re not actually together. He forgets they’re not dating or engaged or married. He forgets he’s not allowed to reach out and take Cas’ hand or to kiss that stupid smile off his face when he makes him laugh or fall asleep next to him. He turns over in the morning already forgetting that Cas won’t be lying next to him. Some days it feels so real that Dean thinks the hard part is already over.

            Then, some days, Dean is painfully aware that it’s not. Some days Cas is MIA all night and he comes home with a stupid smirk on his face and Dean knows better by now. He knows better but he still asks. He still drives the knife through his own heart. Some days Cas is still gone for weeks at a time and Dean feels like his right arm is missing so he goes to a bar and drowns his sorrows and when some pretty thing wants to take him home, he remembers. He remembers he’s not in a relationship. He remembers he’s not taken. He remembers that if he doesn’t take the offer, he’ll wake up alone again. He’ll wake up in love and wanting.

            Today is somewhere in between. Dean is aware that he’s not with Cas. He doesn’t try to hold his hand or sit closer to him than normal. But he’s also violently aware that they should be together. When they question the mother, he and Cas are in perfect sync. When Cas tells him to be more serious and he laughs, there’s a smile Cas is trying to hide. Even when Cas annoys him, when he goes all _I’m an angel and I know better_ and Dean rolls his eyes, he knows he’s not as annoyed as he could be. He knows that if he wasn’t in love with this man, he would want to kill him.

            Dean sits at the police station nursing the coffee Officer Benson gave him. He stares at the pictures on her desk – of her dogs and her son – and smiles to himself. He and Cas split up to follow different leads. He told Cas it was so it wouldn’t take them as long but really it was killing him seeing the way Officer Benson looked between them with a smile on her face.

            She sits back down now and shuffles some papers around. On the edge of it all, Dean sees some samples for save-the-dates. “Getting married?” Dean asks.

            She looks up with a smile. She’s not young – maybe five or six years older than Dean – but there’s still a youthful glint in her eyes. She’s beautiful the way most women are but Dean never hears anyone talk about. She has a soft face, shiny short hair, and wide, expressive eyes. “Yeah,” she says. “July second.”

            “I like the ones with the lace.” Dean taps the invitation in question.

            “Did you go with lace?”

            Dean furrows his brow.

            “For your wedding?”

            “Oh, no, ma’am. I’m not married.”

            Shock flashes across her features momentarily. Then she laughs to herself, shuffling more papers until she has the report she wants on top. “My mistake,” she says. “You and your partner, you just seems so...”

            “So what?” Dean asks, curiosity getting the better of him. He leans in.

            She shrugs. “Listening to you two talk, it’s like listening to my parents argue. No kid likes that, I’m sure, but every time my parents would argue, there would just be so much genuine affection behind it that I never worried they wouldn’t work it out. You two are like that. You have that old married couple kind of love.”

            Dean opens his mouth to say something but there are no words for what he’s feeling, for these butterflies in his stomach. He closes his mouth and licks his lips. “Yeah, well,” is all he can say before he moves the conversation back to the case. But he’s barely listening when Officer Benson starts to speak again because how could he? It’s not just in his head anymore. Total strangers can see it. Dean’s not sure what to do with that information.

            On the walk back to his car, Dean calls Sam.

            “Hey, how’s the case going?” Sam says.

            “Fine.” Dean nearly chickens out. He nearly makes up something he needs Sam to research or look up for him. He nearly makes up a problem in the case. Then he swallows his fear – he’s so fucking tired of living in fear – and says, “Do you think Cas has feelings for me?”

            There’s a long beat of silence. Then, “What are you asking me, Dean?”

            “This cop I was talking to, she said... she thought we were married.” Dean swallows hard. He tries not to imagine Sam’s face. He tries not to imagine his father’s face. He nearly cleaves his tongue in half. “And I was just wondering... I mean, I know how I feel but... you know the two of us better than anyone and...”

            “Do I think Cas is in love with you?” Sam replies.

            Dean nods. He knows Sam can’t see him but he can’t force words out of his mouth.

            “I think there’s a good chance.”

            Dean lets out a sigh of relief. “I have to go. Bye, Sammy.” He slides into the front seat of his car and revs the engine. He slams down on the gas and tears out of the police station parking lot, hoping no one gets power hungry and tickets him for speeding. He drives too fast all the way back to the motel, heart in his throat, blood pounding so loud he hears it.

            He parks on an angle. Normally, he would never – too high of a chance someone may scratch his baby – but he doesn’t have time to adjust now. He barrels towards their room, their door, and pauses right in front of it. He stares at the peeling green paint.

            And he loses his nerve.

            Because Officer Benson and Sam can both think Cas is in love with him but Dean knows better. Dean has spent days upon days with Cas. He has had endless opportunities to kiss him and nothing has happened. A while ago, Cas even said he loves him. Dean didn’t have the strength to ask _how_ but it’s been a question on his mind ever since.

            Then he hears it.

            He hears Cas’ silence like he used to. He can hear it through the closed door, thrumming softly in the room beyond. And it feels a lot like the instant calm that overtook him when Cas touched the back of his neck. So he tries to forget all the little things he always remembers and walks into the motel room.

            The shower is running and the door is open just a crack. Dean feels instantly sweaty because of the humidity in the room and maybe something else too. He remembers all the other overheated motel rooms he’s been in. He forgets that many of them he didn’t share with Cas. He takes a step further into the room.

            “Cas?” he calls.

            The water stops. Dean holds his breath, lets his eyes dip to the floor.

            “Yes, Dean?”

            Dean looks up to see Cas in blue boxers with a towel in his hand. He wipes the water from his face, catches the droplets at the top of his chest, and then lets the towel hang by his side. He’s dripping, tired, his mouth is open as he breathes.

            “Thought angels didn’t need to shower,” Dean quips, but his voice is weak.

            Cas smiles – just the edge of his lips going up. “Old habit,” he says. “I liked it when I was human.”

            Dean steps closer. “And now?”

            Cas shrugs and Dean knows he’s not being subtle. He knows he’s looking everywhere, that his eyes are tracing the curves of Cas’ body, that he can’t get enough of the water sticking to his skin. He knows he’s too close now, closer than they are in private – ever. He stops. He meets Cas’ eyes, that dastardly blue that’s always changing on him, always different, and yet somehow always the same. No matter what Cas is, no matter who he is, his eyes always feel like home.

            “Dean?” Cas prompts. Still curious. Still not scared.

            “Don’t hate me,” Dean breathes.

            And then, before Cas can say anything, before he can question him, before Dean loses his nerve, he kisses him. He wraps one hand around the back of Cas’ neck and pulls him into it, feeling the wet, soft expanse of his lips. He tastes a little like soap and lip chap and toothpaste. Dean wonders how human Cas is under all of it.

            And even though he can’t feel Cas kissing him back, he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop until Cas kisses him back. Because if he does, if he made a mistake, then he’s already lost him.

            “Dean,” Cas mumbles against his lips. “What are you doing?”

            Dean feels his heart go into freefall. He doesn’t let it discourage him. It’s all or nothing now. “Kissing you,” he mutters. He softens his grip on Cas’ neck, gives him every opportunity to pull away. “Surely you’ve been kissed before.”

            “Not by you.”

            “No. Not by me,” Dean agrees. He allows himself to pull back just a little, just enough that their lips aren’t brushing with every word. He stares at Cas’ red lips, resists the urge to bite them. “Do you want to be?”

            “Want to be what?”

            “Kissed by me.”

            The silence seems to extend into eternity. Dean has this crazy, ridiculous thought that Castiel never raised him from perdition. Maybe he only thought he did. Maybe this was one of hell’s mind games. Maybe Castiel had never really existed, never saved him, maybe Dean had been in hell the whole time and this was the endgame. Dean confesses his feelings and the whole thing dissolves. He’s never in love, he’s never been loved, he never gets to live again. And all there is, for the rest of eternity, is this endless moment in which Cas tries to figure out how to tell him that he doesn’t want to be kissed by him.

            “I didn’t think you wanted to kiss me,” Cas whispers.

            Dean backs away enough to look him in the eye. It feels real. It feels honest. He still asks, “For real?”

            Cas smiles. It’s weak and strained and on the edge of a bitter laugh but it’s there. “I gave up heaven for you. Literally heaven. I don’t know what else I can possibly do to get through to you that I love you.”

            Dean’s mind hesitates over the endless possibilities of things Cas has done because he loves him. Betray heaven and the angels. Die. Come back to life. But he shoves it all away because right now he’s looking at the man he loves, dripping wet and practically undressed. Dean smiles. “I love you too.”

            Cas smiles but Dean doesn’t let him get all the way there. He kisses him again, hard, putting all his emotions behind the action. He’s better at action than words. He slips his tongue between Cas’ lips and has a thrill when Cas’ tongue touches his, when he kisses him back, when his fingers dig into Dean’s hips and pull him flush against him. Dean no longer worries he may be in hell. In fact, he’s sure if he’s dead, he’s in heaven.


End file.
